


Living in Lies, Marriage and Sherlock Holmes

by lucienne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheating, John is married to Mary, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucienne/pseuds/lucienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was beginning to wonder what it would be like to throw away everything he had in favor of something else. Something that he knew would make him happier. Something that as always, involved Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in Lies, Marriage and Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> I can't find it in me to like Mary Morstan. I apologize profusely if there is anything wrong with this fic. I own nothing.

“I’ll be back around 7pm darling.” John called out blearily to his wife who was inside the bathroom as he shrugged his brown coat on. He grabbed his wallet and phone, walking out of the flat without waiting for Mary’s response.

 

It was 6 am in London, two hours before he needed to be in the clinic and start his shift. It was cold as he walked through the Westminster streets, pausing momentarily to raise his hand and catch a cab at the corner of his street. John could imagine his phone heating up and burning out of his pocket, reading and rereading the message that he found early that day in his head.

 

_Paddington International Hotel room 520_

_-SH_

 

“Where to, chap?” Asked the stout cabby who glanced at John from the rearview mirror. John cleared his throat before replying. “Paddington International Hotel.”

 

It wasn’t his fault, John thought as he watched the buildings pass by him blurrily at the speed of the cab. John observed as couples and families and joggers came to view, before they too were left behind. No, he decided. It was no one’s fault.

 

It was that night that John went home hesitantly. He was out having a few pints with some mates when Greg stopped him halfway through the story he was telling. “You alright John?” He asked, concern drawing his eyebrows together. John asked him what he meant through the light buzz of his head. “You’ve been complaining about not wanting to go home. What’s the matter with you and Mary then?” Sometimes John would forget that Greg was a Detective Inspector. John downed his drink in favor of replying.

 

So he got home (Not drunk. He couldn’t find it in himself anymore to get drunk) and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, before he noticed an opened envelope on the counter, stark white against the black marble and the darkness of the kitchen. John drank and returned his glass, before walking over to the envelope, reading it as he made his way up the stairs.

 

John’s lips were drawn in a taut line, expression unreadable when he saw his wife’s puffy red eyes after he pushed their bedroom door open.

 

“Tell me it isn’t true.” John’s voice was calm, but his insides were confused. Confused at what to feel about this whole situation.

 

Mary shook her head, tears spilling out of her eyes as she did. “I’m sorry.” She croaked.

 

No other words were said that night.

 

John woke out of his reverie to realize he wasn’t there yet. _Leave Sherlock to pick such a faraway hotel_ , he thought as he ran his hand through his short cropped hair. John knew he shouldn’t be overreacting at the situation with Mary as his thoughts drifted off again. After all, as a doctor, he knew that these things tend to worry the wife much more than the husband.

 

The fact that he could never have children flashed in his head like the gleaming sun above him. Blinding and painful.

 

The cab stopped abruptly, momentarily throwing John off his seat. He scrambled to get out after throwing a few bills at the cabby, making his way inside the hotel. After the tedious process of getting past the guards and battling through the throng of people crowding the lobby and elevator, John found himself standing outside room 520.

 

Pushing the thoughts of his wife at home, John opened the unlocked door and in the blink of an eye a pair of strong and spidery arms dragged him inside the room.

 

“Sherlock.” John greeted grimly as the other man helped him out of his coat hurriedly. Sherlock captured John’s lips in between his, as if replying to John’s greeting with a bruising and _desperate_ kiss. As far as desperate went for Sherlock Holmes. John wasn’t even given a moment to adjust to his new surroundings, only having registered in his mind that the room was dark. Why was Sherlock’s hotel room devoid of any lights? John reminded himself to ask him about that later, before he was pushed against the room door, closing it shut. Sherlock’s hand clicked it lock quickly.

 

John felt Sherlock’s tongue—that terribly spiteful tongue, spilling words composed of nothing but eloquent displays of intelligence—on his neck, grazing his teeth against the soft skin there and licking. Careful not to leave any mark. No, Sherlock knew better.

 

The detective helped John out of his jumper and John shivered at being exposed to the cold air of the room. Sherlock’s tongue was reducing him to nothing but harsh breathing and moans of “ _S-Sherlock_ ,” that John was afraid he would collapse to the carpeted floor, despite it only being four days since they last saw each other. John wanted to claw at Sherlock’s dress shirt, only to find no purchase, because the man was completely naked.

 

Sherlock, as always, claimed to know what was on John’s mind.

 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Sherlock said as the pressure of his lips firmed against John’s bare chest. John drank in the quality of Sherlock’s voice, that perfect low baritone sounded rough like it was difficult for him to speak. Sherlock’s wicked lips found one of John’s nipples and he tweaked it with his mouth, the other being abused by his long wiry fingers. It felt heavenly. John could’ve stayed there, against that door for _hours_ , but the insistent throbbing between his legs were beginning to hurt. “Sherlock,” John whispered into the cold air, his own fingers tangling in the detective’s unruly mop of curly hair. “Bed, Sherlock. Please.” John added for good measure.

 

“Yes.” Was all Sherlock replied before he grabbed John’s wrist and led him further into the hotel room. John couldn’t figure out how Sherlock was able to find his way considering how dark the place was, but John stopped being surprised after spending so much time with the man for so long. He was unceremoniously pushed into the bed, the soft duvet cushioning his fall.

 

John tried very hard to make up Sherlock’s body that he could feel was now hovering over his own, but his eyes were failing him. He settled for reaching out with his hands, mapping Sherlock’s well-built body, tall and muscles in the right places. John caressed his arms, abdomen and neck. It was far from sexual, but when he was finished, Sherlock’s breathing was labored, and John could see a glimpse of his dilated ocean deep eyes.

 

He remembered the first time he saw those eyes. John couldn’t figure out what color they were, like they were a new hue in itself. So utterly unique and so very _Sherlock_ , despite not knowing who the man was then. It brings him back to those nights of Dartmoor, Chinese takeout and Baker Street. In those eyes he found peace, despite the detective’s haughty attitude. In those eyes he found security and delight. In those eyes he eventually found love. Those same eyes were guiding John now, they were his source of light, and he figured that that was enough.

 

Sherlock’s hands were soft, unlike John’s calloused ones from times in Afghanistan. They felt like the duvet he was lying on at the moment when Sherlock placed his palm against his cheek, thumb brushing against the skin. John shuddered, his hands moving on their own accord as they wound around Sherlock’s neck and ended up tangled in his hair before he pulled him down for another kiss.

 

When they broke apart, Sherlock leaned his forehead against the doctors, the chill of the room not enough anymore because they were both sweating profusely against each other’s skin. Sherlock closed his eyes again, John’s source of light momentarily gone.

 

“It hurts, John.” Sherlock whispered in the dark. “It hurts.” John hates more than anything whenever people judge Sherlock for being heartless. Sometimes the man himself admits to being able to function without human emotion, but John knew. He felt it too.

 

Those wide orbs were open again and John felt it pierce through his skin all the way and penetrate his soul. Sherlock took John’s hand that was on his head and brought it down their bodies into the apex of Sherlock’s thighs, where his cock was slick against his stomach. “Look at what you do to me.” Sherlock said to John’s chest. John curled his fingers around it in impulse.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitched while John continued to pump his hard cock repeatedly. His thumb swiped at the slit, pulling out a mewl from the detective’s lips. “Oh, _John_.” The man’s deep baritone went straight to John’s own cock, making it twitch against his leg. John knew Sherlock felt it, what with the way he was looking at the doctor now, as if he wanted to ravage him whole. As if he wanted nothing but to _consume_ him. “Do it.” Sherlock whispered.

 

“But I haven’t…” As much as John wanted to comply, he disliked hurting Sherlock this way. Despite Sherlock liking it rough and raw, the doctor in him couldn’t tolerate it. And John hated hurting Sherlock, more than anything.

 

Sherlock was having none of it, however, as he took John’s fingers and lead it to his arse. John’s fingers breached him almost immediately, and John groaned when he felt how wet Sherlock was.

 

“I was preparing myself for you, before you came.” Sherlock muttered a few more words but they were left broken in bits and fragments when John began pushing two fingers in and out of him.

 

John was a man of patience. Great patience, in fact. The patience of a saint, probably brought upon by years in the army and a few more with the self-proclaimed sociopath. He practices self-control and only moved when necessary. Sherlock was the exact opposite. For example, John was almost perfectly content in fingering Sherlock slowly, but the detective wanted everything in his own time. John understood this, and he also knew that that is partly why he admired the man so much. His insatiable need to satisfy his hunger, be it in a case, or in an experiment, or when they were alone together like this.

 

“Enough.” Sherlock demanded. “ _Fuck me_ , John.” John’s mind was going on overdrive, not being able to catch what Sherlock was saying what with the insistent clenching of his insides around John’s fingers. This infuriated Sherlock and he pulled out John’s fingers himself, before wrapping both his long and lithe legs around John’s torso.

 

Sherlock’s arm reach under the pillow of the bed and John heard the crinkle of plastic. The detective knew that John being a medical man would refuse to give in to his brain induced libido if it meant possible harming either of them. The monthly tests wouldn’t silence John no matter how Sherlock pressed on. John slipped the rubber on with fingers shaking of desire.

 

“Fuck me!” Sherlock shouted, the harshness in his orders taking a breathy quality. He threw his head back and exposed the long column of his neck. John, unable to resist, latched on it and bit, just as he positioned himself and _thrust_.

 

John thought he would come immediately at the sound Sherlock created. The way he took in air through his mouth and released, his deep and rasp voice mixing with it. John kept his thrusts measured and slow, but began picking up pace before Sherlock even asked. The detective’s brilliant hands crawled up John’s back, feeling each muscle that contracted and sweat that pierced out of John’s skin before he held on to his doctor’s hair for dear life. When Sherlock closed his eyes, his long eye lashes casted a shadow that highlighted his cheekbones. He was so beautiful that it wretched John’s heart.

 

“Yes, _yes_ … John…” Sherlock whimpers against John’s lips as they kissed some more. All the while, John keeps his cock buried to the hilt inside Sherlock. The tantalizing sound of skin slapping against skin filling the emptiness of the cold hotel room.

 

Their foreheads were leaning on to each other, trying to keep every inch of their body close. Sherlock’s grip on John’s head was a tad bit too tight for comfort, but John knew Sherlock couldn’t always hide what he felt and refused to say. His grip was telling John that he didn’t want him to leave. Not ever, and certainly not for Mary. John saw tears threatening to escape Sherlock’s eyes and the doctor leaned down to cup his face and kiss the side of his eyes until they would open. “Look at me, love.” John whispered, laying soft and tiny kisses until Sherlock complied. The moment he did, John came undone.

 

With the remains of his functioning brain, John held Sherlock’s cock and pumped it in his hands a few times before he felt Sherlock shudder and his body release ripples of pleasure. The detective let out a deep breath, groaning when John came inside him and the aftermath of sex was there, warming up his body. They didn’t pull away but held on, breathing each other’s air and heat.

 

The hard hold of Sherlock’s grip on John’s arm would surely leave a mark. John knew in the recesses of his mind, he didn’t matter. That it would only remind him of this extraordinary man who changed his life. John decided, as he had Sherlock's perfectly chisled face in his hands, that all his sacrifices were worth it. That he has never been happier than this. 

 

They kissed again and John held Sherlock’s gaze.

 

*

 

John went to work on time, and left just as normally as ever. It was 7 when he walked to the front door of his house just like he said, taking note of all the opened lights outside. Mary must’ve stayed home.

 

“Tell me it isn’t true.” John heard after closing the front door shut. Mary was in the sitting room and she was staring at the telly that was turned off. It was a horrible case of déjà vu. John felt a cold rush at the back of his neck, and not the good kind.

 

“I’m sorry?” He asked, and it brought him back to the conversation they had days ago except this time he was on the receiving end.

 

Mary looked at him this time, eyes glazed over.

 

“How was Paddington Hotel?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For Agent L, my lovely friend and companion. She claims to be my John Watson and that's totally not gay. Love you totes bby. ;) #OverlyAttachedGirlfriend #LandiHits #Whoremones
> 
>  
> 
> Comments would be wonderful.


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